Page 37 of The New Guy
With only three minutes on the clock, he vaults over the wall again. Our forwards have the puck in play, and Newgate covers their winger like a wad of gum on a pair of new shoes. He’s everywhere the opponent doesn’t want him.
Drake sends Hudson a pass, and before I can even blink, he’s flipped it to Trevi.
Who scores!
Suddenly the score is three to two, with thirty-seven seconds on the clock. And less than a minute later, we’ve won it.
“YEAH!” the whole bench shouts.
“We’re going to party like rock stars tonight!” Castro yells. “Food and games in our suite later!”
“You got a suite?” Jimbo asks as he gathers up the extra sticks. “Big spender.”
“Didn’t want to go clubbing because I hate Miami traffic.” The forward shrugs. “Let’s eat a lot of room service and play poker. You guys are invited.” He points at me and Jimbo. “Especially if you’re bad at poker and flush with cash.” Then he vaults over the wall one more time for the handshake.
* * *
So that’s how I find myself at eleven-thirty p.m., on a sofa in the Castros’ suite, twenty dollars poorer than when I arrived.
Who knew Heidi Jo was a poker shark? She won everybody’s cash, including her husband’s.
I’m full of food, too. A surprisingly large mountain of nachos and chicken wings have been consumed. Plus a salad with a piece of salmon on it for Newgate. He eats healthy even on the road.
Not like I notice every single detail about him, all the time.
Okay, I do. It doesn’t help that I’m a little bit drunk for the first time in ages. Partying with hockey players is fun. I’m living my best life right now, watching Trevi and Jimbo battle it out on a video game console that Jimbo brought.
“Does it frighten anyone that Jimbo is beating a bunch of hockey stars at a hockey game?” I ask. And then I belch. “Oops. Sorry.”
Jimbo snickers. “At least I win at something.”
“Huh,” Newgate says, coming over to stand behind the sofa and watch. “O’Doul looks angry in this year’s game. And Trevi’s head is a funny shape.”
“It doesnotlook funny,” Trevi complains as his on-screen player falls down again. “But they got Drake’s tattoos wrong.”
“That’s because of copyright infringement,” Drake says from the other sofa. “They don’t want to pay licensing fees to my tattoo artist.”
“But they gave you adragontattoo,” Jimbo says. “You should sue them for making you into a cliché.”
Everyone laughs.
“The dragon is dumb,” Drake admits. “But they gave me a bitchin V-cut. The wife says it’s hot.”
“A dragon?” someone else hoots. “Injure Drake in the game, Jimbo. I gotta see this.”
“Wait—“ I sit up, tipsy. “Is there an athletic trainer in the game?” I ask. “Is he hot, too?”
Everyone howls.
And sure enough, when they injure a player to show me, a trainer runs out onto the ice with a medical kit bearing a red cross on it. He kneels down beside the injured player and whips out a bandage.
“That is not hygienic,” I grumble. “Where are his gloves?”
I get another laugh.
Then Drake shows me how to play the game, and then I lose spectacularly, possibly because Leo Trevi pours me two shots of tequila in the middle of it.
I down them both, like I’m a college kid.
